Love Thy Soul Mate
by Lost Duck Inc
Summary: Liz refused to marry before she had a farewell journey with her partner-in-crime of 24 years, Gil. Not all love could be resolved by marriage; theirs was an errant, misunderstood love, a balancing act between basal lust and innocence. PruHun, AusHun.
1. Prologue: Post Engagement Breakfast

_Love Thy Soul Mate_

**Author's Note:**

**Hello. No, I haven't abandoned the USUK fandom. This is my first time trying my hand on a straight ****fic. Why the hell am I feeling nervous, again?**

**Disclaimer:**** Himaruya owns Hetalia.**

**Soundtrack:**** 'Chemo Limo' by Regina Spektor.**

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><p><em>Prologue: In Which They Had a Post-Engagement Breakfast<em>

The ruby of the engagement ring alone could have provided for the start-up of a new, promising software company; with the gossamer-thin platinum band, it could have jumpstarted a thousand young dreams of a starving generation. It was ridiculously expensive, it was unsurprisingly beautiful, and it would not fit onto his right ring finger.

He tried twisting the band into place; however, it resisted him, refusing to accommodate even his bony little finger. The ruby eye glared at him, as if it found his touch demeaning, and his use of force a desecration. Even while he appraised its deep colour and flawless cut, he found himself deciding that the ruby was a bad choice; emerald would have suited the newly engaged Elizaveta Héderváry far better. An emerald threaded on a gold band — warm, glowing colours would complement her creamy complexion, the healthy bursts of pink on the apples of her cheeks, and the gentle waves in her hair. The violence of the ruby's blood and the cold white gold were stark on her skin; they brought out the worst of her: the shadow of arrogance in her smile, her oft insufferable self-assured posture, and the scrutinising slant of her almond eyes. The ring, he realised, was an engagement to a facet of Liz he was never well acquainted with, an intelligently seductive creature who had her ways, a risqué woman who attracted men by the dangers she posed.

Pinching the thin ring, he held it up under New York's grey morning light. Beyond the café's windows, the traffic was a clamour of noise and frustration inching along the smoking asphalt, a river of petty human miseries beneath a turgid canopy of fat, gloomily swollen clouds. He peered through the white-rimmed monocle of the ring and zeroed on the woman sitting across him. "Do you like it?"

Upon the curious, conversational tone of his question, Liz looked up from the manuscript she was editing and took off her glasses. She gave him a brief smile, a signal; he had got her attention in its whole. Losing her posture, she languished on her narrow wooden chair. Her voice was a lazy morning drawl. "You look ridiculous. What are you talking about?"

He held the ring aloft between them. Unsuspecting observers thought up a scene of marriage proposal. He laughed inwardly at the insight. Even though he was a poor, struggling sod with his career only starting to bud sullenly before him, he would not stoop to the low of proposing with another man's ring. The ring was livid, even under the weak sunlight. Holding it, his hand was steady — it was a trait of the Beilschmidt family honed and descended through generations of neurosurgeons, until he broke the decades-old trend and typed codes for a first-person shooting game on the keyboard of his laptop instead.

"Your engagement ring." And he handed it back to Liz. She took it back in silence, slipping it clumsily onto her right ring finger. She was unaccustomed to the weight of the gem on her hand; twenty-four hours had yet passed since she received it as a surprise in a velvet box beside her dessert, the closure of an eight-course French dinner of miniscule, delicate bouquets of dishes on ivory plates.

She admired the ring for a while, before grinning in a way he recognised from her distinctly boyish childhood. "Well," she mused, "I do love rubies."

"They don't suit you."

"Yeah. I don't exactly wear them," she said dismissively. "I'm more of a peridot-and-emerald person, all the green stuff. All I inherited from my mom. I got my green eyes from her, if you remember."

He did not. Even though they spent their growing up years together and then some, they rarely visited each other's house, much less meeting each other's parents. They made their turf in the outside world: the streets, the woods, and the soda-selling convenience store.

She rubbed the ruby eye fondly, a gesture which later would develop into a habit. "Look: the ruby could be the colour of your eyes, and the platinum your skin."

They pored over the shades of the ring, and he had to admit that he did resemble the ring in terms of colouration. She reached out across the coffee table, across the pancakes and the empty bowl of oatmeal, and the inky coffee dregs, to pat one of his translucent cheeks affectionately.

"So your fiancé gave you a ring that reminds you of me." He was grinning so widely that his winter-dried lips threatened to split and bleed red.

"I'm sure that that's not his intention!" But she was smirking, too; she could not help it. "I'm not going to complain, though. I'm really, really fond of that ring."

"Because it reminds you of me."

She made a scoff; her heart was not in it and she knew that he knew. "Oh, keep on hoping. It's an expensive, beautiful ring. The fact that it simulates your complexion is only a free side dish."

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><p>How Gilbert Beilschmidt and the virtuoso pianist Roderich Edelstein came to be acquainted with each other was an accident in its entirety. It was early in Roderich and Liz's relationship: only a week had passed since Roderich finally called on Liz's apartment and asked her out for dinner. They had their second dinner planned on Saturday night. What went unscheduled was for them to meet during Francis Bonnefoy's party on Friday night, and for Roderich to meet Gil, who had been invited as one of Francis' drinking buddies since high school years and whom Liz had brought along as her escort for the night.<p>

Roderich caught a glimpse of her amidst the drawing room's crowd: the bejewelled guests, their colourful garments, monochromatic waiters hired for the night, and the clutter of Victorian bric-a-brac, which was one of the host's numerous hobbies. He noticed her companion first, due to his odd, pallid complexion and the white of his hair — it looked as if each strand had been burnished in winter ice. His gaze travelled to the lady in the albino's casual embrace, and recognised her as his own girlfriend, the bright-eyed, quick-minded novelist Elizaveta.

A sceptic by nature, who acknowledged and believed only the stuff that science or his eyes could prove, he refrained from hypothesising on the relationship the man and Liz might have shared. Instead, he swiped two flutes of champagne off a tray floating by and made his way across the room in silence. When he found himself looking into Liz's wide-eyed expression, he proffered the champagne to her and said solemnly, "Good evening, Elizaveta."

"Roderich Edelstein!" A flush of delight stole into her cheeks. Her composure never wavered; her expression only brightened. "Of all people! You! In a Bonnefoy's party!"

He noted with intrigue that her companion had taken a step back into the shadows and was watching them, as if bemused.

"I am here as Lili Zwingli's chaperone," he replied, and both he and Liz sought out the younger Zwingli's buttery blond hair and petite form amidst the throng of human bodies, to no avail. Miss Zwingli was a new and upcoming talent in the classical music society. Interestingly, Vash Zwingli, her brother and the only family she had left in the world, was a gun specialist and Francis' personal bodyguard. It was Francis whom Vash turned to when he realised that he had a raw diamond in his care. Francis took it as his personal duty to polish Miss Zwingli into a real diamond with all its rainbow facets.

He gave the albino an inquiring, sidelong glance.

To his surprise, Liz clasped her companion's hand in her own and pulled the man's palm forward. There was a pause as she released her grip, during which Roderich examined the pale, thin hand presented to him. Those spidery fingers could easily surpass his own eleven-note span, reaching perhaps Liszt's twelve.

"Gil, this is Mr Edelstein, Roderich Edelstein. Roderich, Gilbert Beilschmidt has been a terribly good friend of mine ever since — well, ever since I was born."

He had heard of the Beilschmidt. "So you are a neurosurgeon," he concluded, shaking the firm grip around his pianist's hand. That would explain the impressive hands.

"No, I'm not." The curt reply astonished him, although he restrained himself from displaying such emotion. Liz sent Gilbert a withering glance. Gilbert chose to overlook her disapproval and instead twisted the champagne off her hands in a deft, invisible movement. "You have had three glasses. That's enough for tonight." Turning on his heels, he muttered, "Do excuse me," before disappearing into the swarm of guests.

Liz gave a long, suffering sigh. "He is such a difficult guy…"

Roderich shook his head, almost reluctantly. He did not think much of Gilbert's socialising skills, but he reserved a certain admiration for the man's unashamedly blatant protectiveness over Liz. So far, he had held an image of Liz in his head: a strong-willed, independent woman, the epitome of proud modern femininity, a courageous writer who tackled sexual themes and controversy with a chilling precision that won the critics', the readers', and his heart. It was less the representation of a human being than an idealised portrait of another artist. The champagne comment threw a new light on Liz, a flaw that rendered her into more of a human than a figurehead.

"I apologise for the champagne," he said, placing his own back, untouched, on the tray of a passing waiter. "I didn't know."

She looked at him oddly. "No, it's just that I don't really hold my drink very well, hence the need for a chaperone, but it's not your fault…" She trailed off. A smile cracked open on the surface of her face, and he saw her neat rows of teeth, lined up like square pearls, framed by her blood-red-slicked lips.

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><p>Liz paid for their breakfast, since her engagement meant that she had better financial security than Gil at the moment. "Roderich pampers me," she reasoned. "He said he has too much money from his inheritance, far too much than what he is able to deal with. Besides, I was the one who asked for your company this morning."<p>

He held the door open for her, and together they stepped into the chilly November draft. "You're spoiling me with your fiancé's money."

She frowned. "Now you're making me feel real bad."

He wanted to escort her back to her apartment; he wanted to do it so badly. Although he managed to restrain himself just in time, it was just barely. She was going to see Roderich Edelstein and listen to him practising the piano while finishing the editing of her new novel. Still, he did not have the heart to leave before giving her a brief, tight, mute hug, and he did not dare to turn around before she disappeared around the corner of the street without any intention of looking back.

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><p><strong>Due to the experimental nature of this first chapter, constructive criticism and reviews would be especially, <strong>_**especially**_**, appreciated. Thank you for reading; I do hope you enjoyed it.**

**Signing off,**

_**Ilsa S. H.**_

**Lost Duck Inc.**


	2. Chapter 1: Eloping

_Love Thy Soul Mate_

**Author's Note:**

**Thank you for all the feedback and support! I do hope you will enjoy this first chapter.**

**Disclaimer:**** Himaruya owns Hetalia.**

**Soundtrack:**** 'Us' by Regina Spektor.**

XXX

_Chapter 1: In Which They Decided to Say Goodbye by Eloping_

He saw her across the street, for the first time in a month and a half, a month and a half that had passed excruciatingly. They were scrambling for time, scratching on chances to find a single point in the chronological stream in which they could anchor themselves for a while, against the current, and see each other eye to eye and talk and laugh and giggle and chuckle over coffee or something stronger — vodka had always been a favourite, "I miss being us." And when he saw her for the first time after that long period of enforced separation, she had to be across the street that he had just crossed, and the light had to turn red right before he could rectify his mistake and run back to the pavement he had just left. He tried to run to her anyway; however, a passing Jaguar seemed to sense his intention by some kind of sixth sense and honked at him long and loud, surprising him and causing him to withdraw sullenly, still staring at her form.

She saw him, too, across the street. He was unmistakeable; there were not too many albinos circulating in New York. Besides, she would have recognised him anywhere, because she had his posture and pace memorised. She had spent twenty-four years, practically her whole life, watching him walk by her side: she knew that his spine was rigidly straight and his chin always slightly tilted upwards, a trait of the Beilschmidt that he could not deny, and that his strides were long and brisk, giving a certain predatory prowl to the overall languid air he always exuded. She saw him for the first time in a month and a half — a period intolerably long, never before seen in their tightly knitted friendship. Even amidst schoolwork, family, scattered crushes, more schoolwork, college, and then workload, they always found a way to weave a time together during Saturdays, sacred Saturdays in which they drank and talked, be it the Cola of their childhood or the vodka of stifling career lives. She would have run to him, had her hand not been held by the warm, gentle, and yet firm grip of her fiancé, Roderich, who never saw Gil and only noticed her sudden distress.

He did not see the lanky form of Roderich at first, but in the end he did. When he did, he lengthened his stride with a renewed resolve he never thought he had in him and stalked along the street, before disappearing around a corner and into a convenience store.

She tightened her grip on Roderich's hand, because that was all she could do to express her emotion; perhaps her smile went slightly taut at the corners, but she could not be blamed. Her heart was pulled taut like her smile — half sought out the pavement across the traffic and the other half nestled snugly by Roderich's side. And _how_ she missed him, she never exactly pondered upon until she saw a glimpse of him, and never more acutely felt than when that glimpse was denied.

He counted the Saturdays that had passed while browsing through the beer cans. The first was because it was Roderich's birthday, and he understood and nodded and helped her choose a tie that might fit the pianist's elegant, imperialistic taste. He did not help much, he had to admit; he never wore ties and kept his collar unbuttoned. He called her on the next Friday to inquire about their Saturday, but she was rushing through a deadline for a commissioned short story, and staying at Roderich's place. He tried again on the next Saturday morning, but found that her cell phone was switched off, and she only received his calls on Sunday. "Shit, shit, I forgot to charge my phone," she whispered frantically, slapping her own cheek in frustration. She was having a brief reprieve from Roderich's company in his mansion's lavatory. "I'm currently at his place. …No, he's taking me out today for an art gallery tour. I'm so fucking sorry, Gil…" He waved her away in irritation and grumpily told her to have a good time. On the fourth Saturday, he did not even try to contact her — let her call if she wanted him to drop by. She did call, but only to chat with him for an hour, which was too short by their standard, because Roderich was taking her out for dinner and a discussion about the date of their marriage in a fine dining restaurant that Gil had never heard of. The next week, he buried himself in his work. He had received his first character designing assignment: it was a minor character in a subplot of a fantasy game his big boss was developing, but it was a character nonetheless, and he had a blast designing her every smile and detailing her lean, small fingers. He unplugged his phone, unhooked himself from the Internet, and deliberately left his cell phone in Francis' house. He managed to meet the deadline and satisfy his boss in the same time — a magnificent feat. Then his boss asked him to design a cathedral, and he spent another week untethered to the rest world. When he checked his cell phone on the following Tuesday, he had seven missed calls from Liz, but the number was so low for such a duration that he thought nothing of it, save for feeling slightly neglected.

"Are you all right?" Roderich inquired, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture he was very fond of. She nodded brightly and said that perhaps she had spotted a friend across the road, but it was no matter since he was already gone. Quietly he asked if it was Mr Beilschmidt, and she guiltily nodded in affirmation.

He hoped she would find happiness; he never stopped wishing so. Being jealous was not part of his job description.

Her smile felt funny on her face, awkward and fragile, as if it might crack and splinter on the pavement anytime soon. This was not the way to go — she realised it and despaired.

He chose a can of beer and, out of defiance, bought a packet of cigarettes. He used to smoke when he was seventeen. He stopped a week afterwards, because it turned out that she could not stand the acrid stench of the smoke. "Look," she said hotly while keeping one hand clamped over her nostrils. "I. Can't. Frigging. Breathe. Either you stop right now or I'll…I'll go away."

They were like two blind rocks in an indifferent river, suicidal in their determination to stand still and be eroded away. She was facing him with tears in her eyes and a downward, miserable pull on the corners of her lips. They stood against the bumping and cursing crowd, facing each other. "I'm sorry," she gasped, blinking back the prickling at the back of her eyeballs. "It's just…I just realised how long I haven't seen him… I don't think he's very pleased with me at the moment. I've been neglecting him."

Only when he stepped out of the store, jamming one cigarette between his lips, did he realise that he had no means to light it up. So he went back in with a limp stick stuck in his mouth, faced the amused, highly obese teenager manning the counter as coolly as he could, and bought the cheapest lighter the tiny establishment supplied. He thought morosely of his private collection of Zippo lighters, neatly lined up in a steel case with velvet lining under his bed. He never bothered to fill them with even a drop of lighter fluid. He was attracted to their steel casings, and the rigid quality of workmanship they displayed. He liked their iconic status. Branding, quality, and aesthetics were the three things that could a tight-fisted Beilschmidt into a swooning customer; he collected Zippo and Apple products — the latter when he could afford them, while his brother preferred handguns and automobiles — the latter when he could afford them.

Roderich tried to understand; he thought it had always been an obligation for a gentleman. What he never thought was how difficult it was, much less how it actually hurt — not a physical pain, but merely an aching nagging deep in his heart. "Elizaveta…" He was going to make things harder for himself. He had to remember always that it was for her sake, and for _her_ sake he would do it. "Maybe you should spend some time with him. I understand that you have known him for your _whole life_." He paused. "I have known you for the entirety of two years. Your friendship has undergone much, much more than our relationship has. So I understand if it is hard to…_let go_ a part of your intimacy with him and enter a marriage with me." He was beginning to detach himself from his little speech, because he was afraid of the extent of the hurt a personal attachment might cause. The tears were spilling now; mercifully she was as silent as a Transylvanian winter. Tugging gently at her coat to pull it tighter about her, he quietly plodded on, "What I'm saying… What I really need to say is…is that if you need more time," he gazed sombrely at her bright, watery eyes, "I'll _understand_. Maybe a month or so, more if you need. You can have some fun with him. Make him understand that loving me does not mean leaving him. You've been so…depressed lately. You keep checking at your phone all the time. Our love is not going anywhere, dear." The last sentence was packed with enough conviction to fuel a heart-stopping Chopin's 'Revolutionary Etude'.

He paused before lighting up a cigarette. He paused and thought of her.

Like a child, she sobbed, "You're a fool, Roderich."

He paused, thought of her, and missed her.

Roderich's smile was sorrowful, almost bitter at his own display of kindness. "I must admit," his throat felt parched, "I can't eradicate my jealousy. Not completely. But you've been so _miserable_…"

The flame danced before his face, a weak flame, one that would soon die out in the winter wind.

She stood on her tiptoes like a flowering schoolgirl and kissed like a woman burning in deep, passionate love. He wrapped his arms around her and sighed; like learning a difficult piece, he would be patient, because he would want to make no mistakes. Not with this woman.

A series of coughs racked his body. The stench was burning his nostrils. Quickly he dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on its smouldering tip. He refused to look at the flattened stick. Pocketing the remains of the pack and the lighter, he walked away. Goddamn her, he thought, but he never meant it.

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><p>He froze in his doorway. His door was wide open; he thought it was a burglary. If he remained indifferent towards the possibility of a burglary it was because he did not have the strength to care anymore.<p>

She was stuffing a bra into the tiniest suitcase he had ever seen. The suitcase looked brand new. The next thing she pushed into its bulging volume was a pair of his boxers. There were tear streaks on her red, winter-blasted cheeks, and the most gilded, beautiful smile on her lips. "Gil," she sighed happily. "I took the liberty of packing your stuff. Our plane is leaving in five hours."

"What the fuck are we doing?" he whispered, leaning against the doorframe.

"Eloping." She gave a brittle laugh, like the breaking of a crystal flute. "We have a month and four days. We can work from hotel rooms. Just the two of us."

"Oh, Liz," he groaned. "You…" Then he abandoned words and went to hug the life out of her.

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><p>None of them were sober. Before buying the suitcase, Elizaveta had excused herself from Roderich, bought two business class plane tickets to Barcelona online on whim, and treated herself to a bottle of vodka. Halfway through the liquefied fire, she dropped the bottle and left it there, in a dead alley. She walked to Gil's place.<p>

After his failed smoking attempt, Gilbert bought a six-pack and finished them off before he even reached the building he was living in.

They were young, drunk, of different genders, and not in love with each other. At least, not in the conventional sense of love. That complicated everything.

"If only I loved you," Liz mused through the last effects of her afternoon vodka. She was leaning against Gil's shoulder. The plane hummed all around them, as if giddy and impatient to launch itself. "We could get married or something."

His arm came to encircle her shoulders. His long fingers rested on her cheek, pulling her to rest her head on the crook of his neck. "But we don't. Not in that way."

A senior stewardess smiled at them. Young love, her smile said. What a wonderful life.

"Pity."

"Yeah."

"Or perhaps it's a blessing."

"Could be anything, as far as I know. What did you say to your fiancée?"

She groaned. "I'll tell you in Barca."

"I love you, Liz."

Nuzzling his neck, she sighed, "Love you too, Gil."

She tilted her head upwards to look into his crimson eyes. "Not in that way, though," she whispered.

"Pity."

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><p><strong>I apologise that this chapter took so long. An excuse is that I had been away for several weeks, attending a summer programme in Cambridge. Another is that this chapter proved to be rather challenging to write. I do hope I managed to not deviate so much, but I am no longer maintaining the illusion that I am nailing it down most satisfactorily. What do you think? Please give me some feedback.<strong>

**But, most of all, thank you for reading (and reviewing)!**

**Signing off,**

_**Ilsa S. H.**_

**Lost Duck Inc.**


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